


A Delicate Subject

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Baker Dean Winchester, Bakery Shop Owner Dean Winchester, Candy Hearts, Dean Winchester’s Panties Kink, Dogs, Embarrassment, Fluff, Humor, Laundry, M/M, Panties, Seriously I Managed One Without Angst How Bout That, Situational Humiliation, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day Fluff, laundry room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 11:40:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17724503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: Castiel purses his lips and peers inside the machine. “Huh. Well, I don’t know, there’s my pajama bottoms, my slacks, my work socks…”He blinks a few times. Dean swallows hard and takes the initiative to take out the item he’s staring at: A pair of satiny panties as red as his face. And it’s not just your average panties, because that would be too easy. It’s one with a heart-shaped opening in the back and a bow to top it off.





	A Delicate Subject

“Really? You’re relying on conversation hearts to determine the status of your love life? Those are like the participation ribbons of eight balls.”

“First of all, they’re called Sweethearts,” Charlie argues, fiery hair whipping around as she faces him with a way too stern expression. “Second, I don’t see you out with a Valentine. Unless you’re gonna meet the love of your night tonight at another rundown, dingy bar.”

“At least I’m not picking flower pedals to see if they like me. They’re much more straightforward about it.”

Charlie gags. “Fine, you win. You sure you don’t want one? They’re actually not that bad.”

“Charlie, they’re the candy corn of Valentine’s Day.”

Dean rolls his eyes before eventually picking out one at random.

**_Soulmate_ **

Well. He can cancel his fortune reading for tonight. Dean shoves the blue heart candy in his pocket as a customer walks in. This time of year is always popular.

“Welcome to  _Dean’s Delicacies,_ home of the homemade apple pie. How can I help you?”

~.~

The crunch of Dean’s thirty-fourth nacho Dorito makes him jump, only coincidentally as Hatchet Man sticks his hatchet into Jazzercise Mom’s skull.

His two-month old golden retriever—at least, according to his self-proclaimed dog lover brother, who gave Bones to Dean after not-so subtlety voicing his concern for Dean’s utterly irresponsible bachelor life—is unamused. He watches every Dorito steadfastly, waiting for even the smallest sliver to scoop up in his surprisingly massive jaws.

Luck have it, one does fall. He skids out from the laundry basket, and while he successfully cleans one mess, he’s created another. The basket’s now overturned, spilling weeks’ old laundry for the whole complex to smell.

Dean hangs his head with a sigh as he pauses the TV. He knew this time would come. He was just hoping to prolong it long enough to hear Hatchet Man growling ‘Slice and diiice.’

He gets up, shoves all the clothes back into the basket, swipes his headphones from his VHS, and heads towards the door. He glances back and finds Bones staring up at him.

“Well, what’re you doing? You coming or what?”

Bones skids across the floor and they take off to the laundry room.

~.~

_“Please... I’m begging you. You don’t have to do this. I have kids!”_

Hatchet Man raises his hatchet. Instead of another shot of her spaghetti-strap tank top trying to escape her chest, the camera pans to her left hand, bound by rope. Hatchet Man taps it lightly. “ _Enie_.” Then her right. “ _Meanie_.” Her left foot. “ _Minie_.”

And, like the force of someone bringing their full game to a High striker, the hatchet comes down and slices clean through her foot. _“TOEEEE!!!”_

Just then, Bones lets out a string of howls to rival the blonde on the screen—which sounds more like young Michael Jackson doing vocal warmups. Sighing, Dean shoves his handful of popcorn back into the bowl and glares at him. Somehow, the little bastard knows exactly when the laundry’s done, because he’ll be able to properly roll around in it. Yeah. The dog knows how to defeat the purpose of the wrinkle guard setting.

Dean stands up with a groan. He won’t admit to any part of Bones’ excited dancing around his feet being cute.

The trip to the laundry room even shorter than earlier. Just down a flight of stairs and around the corner, in the front of the apartment. It’s particularly nice today, since most people are out for a dinner or a movie—both if they’re getting crazy. Dean may be a veteran bar-hopper, but there’s a reason he only goes out if it involves alcohol: The drunker he is, the more tolerable people are. And entertaining.

Bones has a different philosophy. Every person within twenty feet of him is his best friend, bound by destiny, and he gets _very_ upset if they don’t share that belief. Most of the time, Dean has him on a leash, but he figured he wouldn’t have to worry about that today. But it looks like he’s not the only loner on Valentine’s Day.

“Ba—bon…” Dean shucks off his headphones and drapes it around his neck. “I’m sorry, he gets excited sometimes. I mean, I don’t understand it, but…”

The man, who’s bent down in front of Bones, looks up. Dean’s mouth parts.

“Or maybe I do.”

He doesn’t mean for it to come out, but there it is, hanging between them like a line of dirty laundry.

The man’s quick to cut it with a surprisingly soft, and gummy, smile. Even Bones jumps up to get a piece of it. He’s unsuccessful, but the man still rubs him down with slender but sinewy bronze hands. Bones, like a pig in the dead of summer, flops down belly-up on a floor that’s seen the undersides of one too many shoes.

“You’re totally fine. What’s his name?”

“Bones.”

“Ah, my grandma’s nickname for me whenever I come over for brunch.”

She has to be joking about her grandson, because this guy is _far_ from skinny. In fact, he’s so in shape, Dean can see the fabric of his black Henley tearing a bit to accommodate his biceps. How did he get so close to him anyway? Oh yeah.

He’s about to lift the lid on his washer when he lends his hand with a small smile of his own. “Dean.”

The man stands up and tilts his head curiously, but shakes Dean’s hand nonetheless. “Castiel.” He lifts the lid and Dean gapes. “What’re—?”

“What?”

“Sorry,” Dean chuckles, “I think there’s some confusion. I loaded my clothes in this washer.”

Castiel purses his lips and peers inside the machine. “Huh. Well, I don’t know, there’s my pajama bottoms, my slacks, my work socks…”

He blinks a few times. Dean swallows hard and takes the initiative to take out the item he’s staring at: A pair of satiny panties as red as his face. And it’s not just your average panties, because that would be too easy. It’s one with a heart-shaped opening in the back and a bow to top it off.

“It _may_ have been me who mixed up our clothes,” he says, slowly sliding it into his jean pocket.

Castiel’s face matches his lips: bright pink and cracked where a smile’s trying to escape. “I think you’d better unload first.”

Bones barks in agreeance.

Unfortunately, that’s not the last of the panties. One is a thin black strap with multi-color floral patterns and outlining lace. Another is a purple thong with a giant butterfly with exposed wings. And the third is arguably the worst one: a waist-high, see-through, red-checkered mesh.

Luckily, Castiel has the courtesy of keeping his head down through the whole thing. Dean does the same when he starts to take out his laundry, just to make sure there isn’t anything else in the mix, like a sock or a shirt. Because at this point, damn his collection. He’d rather be sliced and diced by Hatchet Man if he forgot _another_ pantie.

Sure enough, Castiel finds something else that belongs to Dean. It rattles at the bottom of the washer. He pulls it out and holds it for Dean to see. It’s the first time they look at each other in what’s probably been five whole minutes of silence. “Is this yours?”

As if Castiel doesn’t think he’s weird enough, Dean bursts out laughing.

“What is it?”

Eventually, Dean composes himself enough to pluck the candy heart from his fingers. He flips it so the text is facing Castiel.

What was _soulmate_ now just reads _mate._

Castiel shakes his head. His face barely contains his smile, even going as far to crush his dark blue eyes. “This has _not_ been an opportune Valentine’s Day for you.”

Dean scoffs and nods as he sets the candy down. Then, with a surge of unexplainable courage, he blurts: “Maybe I can still save yours.” He pauses to consider. “You know, so you don’t have to keep separating my… delicates.”

Castiel rakes in Dean—as if it’s even a question with those lust-blown pupils. “C’mon, lover boy.”

 

 

Thank God for conversation hearts.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Ah yes, the good ole reliable panties kink. Gotta love Dean Winchester. (Seriously, someone has to. He's a very sad boy.)
> 
> And Happy Valentine's Day! I actually have one this year??? Wowza. Also, just remember: Whether or not you celebrate by indulging in someone's affections, or a King-size Hershey bar, you do what makes YOU feel good, and you can't possibly have a bad Valentine's Day. <3


End file.
